


If We're Very Lucky

by PostcardsfromTheoryland



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Paternal Lestrade, Post-Reichenbach, Reunion, Sherlock Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-10
Updated: 2013-09-10
Packaged: 2017-12-26 04:56:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/961809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PostcardsfromTheoryland/pseuds/PostcardsfromTheoryland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gregory Lestrade is woken in the middle of the night by a dead man at the door.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If We're Very Lucky

Gregory Lestrade awoke in confusion at half past midnight to a rough pounding noise. It sounded as if it was coming from his door, which didn’t make sense. If someone from the Yard was trying to get a hold of him, they would simply call his mobile. In fact, anyone would have called his mobile. The storm was still raging, and he figured what he’d heard had been a product of the wind or thunder and turned over. He was nearly asleep again when the noise sounded for a second time.

Probably deliberate, then.

He grumbled and shoved the covers off, prepared to give whoever it was a reaming. The case he’d just finished that evening had had him sleeping in the uncomfortable chair in his office –he hadn’t made it home for three days. Whatever crisis this was, it was not bloody important enough to require his attention right now. He haphazardly threw on a dressing gown and then yanked the front door open, but whatever he was going to say died in his throat as he realized who it was.

Sherlock Holmes. Still wearing that damn coat. Pale. Thin. Sporting a bloody nose and a rather spectacular bruise blooming around his right eye. Shivering hard. Drenched from the storm.

Alive.

If he had been more awake, Greg probably could have come up with something witty and somewhat acerbic. Bastard had been dead for three years, after all. But, as it was, his response to the man’s sudden reappearance was less than eloquent.

“Bloody hell.”

“An adequate description. May I come in?” Lestrade grabbed him by the hand, intending to lead him inside, but he couldn’t help marveling at its solidity.

“My God, you’re actually real.”

“Yes.” They stared at each other for a few moments until something suspiciously like vulnerability flashing across Sherlock’s face finally spurned Greg into action. He steered the dead man through the hall and into the sitting room, grateful for the moderate flames still burning away in the hearth. Sherlock got as close to the fire as he could without sitting in it, hardly noticing when the blood was wiped gently from his face and a towel was draped around his shoulders.

“Strip.” Sherlock’s eyebrows shot up into scraggly, unkempt fringe, and Lestrade leveled a glare in response. “You’re freezing. Get out of those clothes and dry off. I’ll bring you something of mine to wear.”

“Thought you would have wanted to know how I did it.”

“That can wait till you’re not half hypothermic. Go on, I’ll be right back.” At the answering look of near childlike confusion, Greg sighed and began tugging the coat off. Sherlock allowed it, worryingly docile and quiet. Something was wrong. “What happened to your face?” he asked, unbuttoning what had perhaps once been a decent shirt, now torn and stained and was that more blood?

“I went to John first. He was less than receptive.”

Ah.

Lestrade succeeded in pulling the shirt off, now looking at a disconcerting map of scars over a very discernible set of ribs.

“Christ, you’re skinny. Did you eat anything for the past three years?”

“Busy.”

“Right. Finish undressing. I’ll fetch you some warm clothes and then we’ll see about getting some food into you.”

Greg’s pyjamas were predictably a bit too short in the sleeves and legs and a lot too wide, but they were a far sight better than the sopping rags he’d been wearing. The coat appeared to be the only thing still presentable in the pile of wet garments left on the floor. Satisfied that Sherlock was comfortable, Lestrade shoved him into the kitchen and sat him down at the table.

“So. Faked your death, then?”

“Nothing gets past you, Lestrade, does it?”

“Piss off,” he glared. “Why?”

“Because Moriarty would have killed you, John, and Mrs. Hudson if I hadn’t.”

“What, really?” Sherlock nodded. “Why’d you wait so long to come back, then?”

“I was – taking care of things.” He fell silent, contemplating the tablecloth, and Greg wisely chose not to question him further.

He roused a bit when Lestrade plunked a bowl of chicken noodle soup in front of him. Quick, hot, and – he hesitated, remembering how he could clearly see each of his ribs – a good start for someone who quite possibly hadn’t eaten a decent meal in months.

Sherlock didn’t even bother with a spoon, choosing instead to lift the bowl up and drink it straight. Greg wanted to warn him, tell him to slow down or he’d make himself sick, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Certainly Sherlock was aware enough of his body to know his own limitations. Better to let it be.

He downed the entire thing in less than five minutes, polishing off a mug of tea in the time it took Lestrade to ladle out a second helping of the soup.

Three bowls and mugs later, Sherlock was looking slightly less pale but completely shattered. If Greg wasn’t careful, the man would probably fall asleep at the table. He’d seen it happen before, after a particularly grueling case. Damn. He had really been looking forward to sleeping in his own bed for a change, but another glance at Sherlock had Greg wondering exactly when he’d last seen a mattress was.

“I can take the couch,” he mumbled, interrupting Lestrade’s thoughts. “You clearly haven’t made it home for a few nights. No matter how bad you may claim it to be, any piece of furniture would be a vast improvement from what I’m used to, I assure you.”

“Nope. Can’t do it, not with you looking so pathetic. I’ll manage. Up you come.” He grabbed Sherlock’s elbow and pulled him to his feet, concerned when he began to sway. “Alright?”

“Tired, Lestrade,” came the response as his head fell onto the older man’s shoulder.

“Yeah, I figured as much.” Greg adjusted his hold, looping an arm around his waist and taking most of his meagre weight. Sherlock, weak and trusting, let his eyes droop closed and allowed Lestrade to guide him to the bedroom. Greg managed to sort of prop the man up against himself while he rearranged the bedclothes and pillows. Then, all it took was a slight nudge and Sherlock was collapsing into an ungainly heap onto the mattress. Lestrade tucked the blankets around his shoulders and couldn’t resist ruffling the too-long curls. “Find me if you need anything, okay? Sherlock?”

He was already asleep.

Greg was too wired to attempt sleep himself, so he went about the house, tidying the kitchen, hanging up Sherlock’s coat and binning the rest of his clothes. He had to check twice that the sleeping man did indeed exist before he could calm down and resign himself to an uncomfortable few hours on the couch. One last glance into the bedroom reminded him it was worth it.

At 10 am, there was more knocking at his door. Greg sat up, trying futilely to rub the crick out of his neck before answering it. He made a very necessary detour to the bedroom first, pleased to see Sherlock still there, snoring softly. It looked like he hadn’t so much as twitched since passing out there earlier. Good. God knew he needed the rest.  
He was suddenly wary about whoever was at the door. Foolish, but who knew what kind of demons Sherlock had brought back with him? He shook his head a bit, trying to clear his mind. If some hitman was truly out to get them, he wouldn’t bloody knock first. He cautiously pulled open the door and found himself looking at a sheepish John Watson.

“Um, hey, Greg. Listen, this is going to be a strange question, but…”

“He’s in my room. Asleep.”

John sighed, visibly relaxing as Lestrade beckoned him in. “I couldn’t...be sure. If he was real, I mean. I’m not happy with him, but I woke up this morning and I thought it had all been a dream.”

“Understandable,” he said with an easy smile. “He did die, after all. Down the hall, to the left. I’ll make us a fry-up while you two get everything sorted. Maybe try not to punch him again though, yeah?”

* * *

Sherlock, sprawled inelegantly on his front, was well and truly out of it, unless he had got quite a lot better at faking sleep during his time away. Which, John realized belatedly, was a distinct possibility. Still, the breathing pattern seemed simply too relaxed for an awake Sherlock. And, if what he’d said last night was true, there was no longer a need for him to be hypervigilant. John felt bad about waking him when he seemed so exhausted; idiot had probably deleted sleep while he’d been away. Still, they had to talk. He sat down on the edge of the bed, wincing when Sherlock jerked awake at the movement. He twisted, blinking up at him in confusion. The black eye somehow seemed a lot worse now.

“Why are you here?” The voice, sleep-rough and bewildered, only made him feel guiltier.

“To apologise. That was – that was rude of me. I’m still upset, mind, but I shouldn’t have…I’m sorry.”

“I hurt you. It was only natural for you to retaliate in kind.” John frowned, shaking his head.

“You had a reason. I may not like it or especially agree with it, but it made sense. It was logical.”

“John,” he began, but he was cut off.

“No, just give me a chance. I need to say this. I was angry, Sherlock. I am angry. I trusted you and I thought you did the same, but then you went and faked your death and let me believe for three years that I hadn’t managed to talk you out of suicide. And I know you were afraid that I’d get shot if I didn’t look like I was properly mourning, but you can’t honestly tell me that you couldn’t have given me one tiny hint.”

“I did,” he whispered miserably. “You didn’t understand.”

“Sherlock?”

“I told you, up on the roof. ‘Just a magic trick.’ You misinterpreted it. Makes sense, of course, within the context of the situation. I thought about giving you something a bit more helpful, but I assumed they were listening to the call and was afraid to be any more specific. I am sorry, John.”

Suddenly the entire conversation he’d had staring up at the top of St. Bart’s jolted with entirely new meaning. Sherlock wasn’t trying to convince him that he was fake. He was telling him the death would be fake, asking him to talk to the other two people he was protecting and the one who knew the truth, reminding him that he thought John was important. And how had John repaid him?

“I yelled at you and then punched you in the face.”

“Didn’t avoid my nose this time,” Sherlock grumbled, but it was accompanied by the start of a smirk.

“Avoided your teeth, though. Be thankful for small favors,” he huffed. “Things are going to be different for awhile. I won’t just magically stop being upset, but I am glad you’re alive. Really glad.”

There was a lull as both men organized their thoughts. Then:

“Can I come back to Baker Street?”

John Watson smiled at Sherlock Holmes for the first time in three years.

“Obviously.”

**Author's Note:**

> The lovely kiddiecone has translated this into Chinese! The translation can be found [here](http://0ikid.wordpress.com/2013/10/31/if-were-very-lucky/)! (Edited to fix broken link)


End file.
